
























Class P>Sg.yQ4 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

















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RILEY SONGS OF HOME 


























RILEY 


SONGS OF HOME 

JAMES 

WHITCOMB RILEY 


ILLUSTRATED BY 

WILL YAWTER 


D3 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright, 1883, 1887, 1888, 1890, 1892, 1894, 1898 
1899, 1900, 1903, 1907, 1910 

James Whitcomb Riley 
All Rights Reserved 

* 

Copyright, 1923 

By The Bobbs-Merrill Company 


Printed in the United States of A merica 




PRESS OF 

BRAUNWORTH & CO 
BOOK MANUFACTURERS 
BROOKLYN, N. Y. 


MAR 24 IS23 

€>C1 A696915 


^ ^ 



To 

George A. Carr 






PROEM 


You Home-Folks:—Aid your grateful guest — 
Bear with his pondering, wandering ways: 

When idlest he is busiest, 

Being a dreamer of the days. 

Humor his silent, absent moods — 

His restless quests along the shores 

Of the old creek, wound through the woods, 
The haws, pawpaws and sycamores: 

The side-path home—the back-way past 
The old pump and the dipper there; 

The afternoon of dreamy June — 

The old porch, and the rocking-chair. 

Yea, bear with him a little space — 

His heart must smoulder on a while 

Ere yet it flames out in his face 
A wholly tearless smile. 


-i 















CONTENTS 


As Created .... 

As My Uncle Ust to Say 

At Sea. 

Backward Look, A . 

Best Is Good Enough, The 
Boys, The .... 
“Brave Refrain, A” . 

Dreamer, Say . 

Feel in the Chris’mas Air, A . 

For You. 

Good Man, A ... 

Her Beautiful Hands 
His Room .... 
Home-Folks .... 
Honey Dripping From the Comb 
“H ow Did You Rest, Last Night?” 
In The Evening 
It’s Got to Be . 

Jack-in-the-Box 

Jim . 

John McKeen . 

Just to Be Good 


page 

.57 

126 

159 

154 

124 

106 

114 

62 

50 

54 

130 

188 

37 

17 

135 

95 

116 

109 

102 

118 

164 

34 










CONTENTS —Continued 


PAGE 

Kneeling With Herrick.136 

Laughter Holding Both His Sides .... 92 

Mulberry Tree, The.44 

My Dancin' Days Is Over.183 

Natural Perversities ...... 71 

Old Days, The.133 

Old Guitar, The.160 

Old Trundle-Bed, The.65 

Our Boyhood Haunts.181 

Our Kind of a Man..93 

Our Own.64 

“Out of Reach" . 101 

Out of the Hitherwhere ..... 99 

Plaint Human, The ...... 56 

Quest, The.48 

Rainy Morning, The.139 

Scrawl, A. 76 

Song of Parting. 90 

Song of Yesterday, The.82 

Spring Song and a Later, A . . . . . 143 

“Them Old Cheery Words".171 

Thinkin’ Back.29 

Through Sleepy-Land.169 

To My Old Friend, William Leachman . . . 144 

To the Judge ....... 176 

We Are Not Always Glad When We Smile . . 42 

We Must Believe.141 

We Must Get Home ....... 22 

Where-A way.58 

Who Bides His Time.69 

Writin’ Back to the Home-Folks .... 77 








RILEY SONGS OF HOME 










HOME-FOLKS 


T T OME-FOLKS!—Well, That-air name, to me, 
Sounds jis the same as poetry — 

That is, ef poetry is jis 
As sweet as I've hearn tell it is! 


Home-Folks—they're jis the same as kin — 
All brung up, same as we have bin, 
Without no overpowerin' sense 
Of their oncommon consequence! 

17 


HOME-FOLKS 


They’ve bin to school, but not to git 
The habit fastened on ’em yit 
So as to ever interfere 
With other work ’at’s waitin’ here: 

Home-Folks has crops to plant and plow, 
Er lives in town and keeps a cow; 

But whether country-jakes er town-, 

They know when eggs is up er down! 

La! can’t you spot ’em—when you meet 
’Em anywheres —in field er street? 

And can’t you see their faces, bright 
As circus-day, heave into sight? 

And can’t you hear their “Howdy!” clear 
As a brook’s chuckle to the ear, 

And alius find their laughin’ eyes 
As fresh and clear as morning skies? 

And can’t you—when they’ve gone away— 
Jis feel ’em shakin’ hands, all day? 

And feel, too, you’ve bin higher raised 
By sich a meetin’?—God be praised! 

18 



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HOME-FOLKS 


Oh, Home-Folks! you’re the best of all 
’At ranges this terreschul ball,— 

But, north er south, er east er west, 

It’s home is where you’re at your best.— 

It’s home—it’s home your faces shine, 
In-nunder your own fig and vine— 

Your fambly and your neighbers ’bout 
Ye, and the latch-string hangin’ out. 


Home-Folks —at home ,—I know o’ one 
Old feller now ’at hain’t got none.— 
Invite him—he may hold back some— 
But you invite him, and he’ll come. 





WE MUST GET HOME 


W E must get home! How could we stray like 
this?— 

So far from home, we know not where it is,— 

Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place 
Of children’s faces—and the mother’s face— 

We dimly dream it, till the vision clears 
Even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears. 

22 



WE MUST GET HOME 


We must get home—for we have been away 
So long, it seems forever and a day! 

And O so very homesick we have grown, 

The laughter of the world is like a moan 
In our tired hearing, and its song as vain,— 

We must get home—we must get home again! 

We must get home! With heart and soul we yearn 
To find the long-lost pathway, and return! . . . 
The child's shout lifted from the questing band 
Of old folk, faring weary* hand in hand, 

But faces brightening, as if clouds at last 
Were showering sunshine on us as we passed. 

We must get home: It hurts so staying here, 
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, 
And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, 

When most our lack, the least our hope of rest— 
When most our need of joy, the more our pain— 
We must get home—we must get home again! 


23 


WE MUST GET HOME 


We must get home—home to the simple things— 
The morning-glories twirling up the strings 
And bugling color, as they blared in blue- 
And-white o'er garden-gates we scampered through ; 
The long grape-arbor, with its under-shade 
Blue as the green and purple overlaid. 

We must get home: All is so quiet there: 

The touch of loving hands on brow and hair— 
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild— 
The lost love of the mother and the child 
Restored in restful lullabies of rain,— 

We must get home—we must get home again! 

The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans 
Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans 
The giant sunflower in barbaric pride 
Guarding the barn-door and the lane outside; 

The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks, 

That clamber almost to the martin-box. 


24 


•; -V: 





















WE MUST GET HOME 


We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse, 
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house, 
And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, 

With dreams—not tear-drops—brimming our 
clenched eyes,— 

Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain— 
We must get home—we must get home again! 

We must get home! The willow-whistle’s call 
Trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall— 

Mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees 
And making discord of such rhymes as these, 

That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds 
First warbled—then all poets afterwards. 

We must get home; and, unremembering there 
All gain of ambition otherwhere, 

Rest—from the feverish victory, and the crown 
Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.— 
Fame’s fairest gifts we toss back with disdain— 

We must get home—we must get home again! 


27 


WE MUST GET HOME 


We must get home again—we must—we must!— 
(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust) 

Creep back from the vain quest through endless 
strife 

To find not anywhere in all of life 
A happier happiness than blest us then. . . . 

We must get home—we must get home again! 







THINKIN’ BACK 

T’VE ben thinkin’ back, of late, 
S’prisin’!—And I’m here to state 
I’m suspicious it’s a sign 
Of age, maybe, er decline 
Of my faculties,—and yit 
I’m not feelin’ old a bit— 

Any more than sixty-four 
Ain’t no young man any more! 

29 


THINKIN' BACK 


Thinkin’ back’s a thing ’at grows 
On a feller, I suppose— 

Older ’at he gits, i jack, 

More he keeps a-thinkin’ back! 

Old as old men git to be, 

Er as middle-aged as me, 

Folks’ll find us, eye and mind 
Fixed on what we’ve left behind— 
Rehabilitatin’-like 
Them old times we used to hike 
Out barefooted fer the crick, 
’Long ’bout Aprile first —to pick 
Out some “warmest” place to go 
In a-swimmin’— Ooh! my-oh! 
Wonder now we hadn’t died! 

Grate horseradish on my hide 
Jes’ a-thinkin ’ how cold then 
That-’ere worter must ’a’ ben! 

Thinkin’ back—W’y, goodness me! 
I kin call their names and see 
Every little tad I played 
With, er fought, er was afraid 
Of, and so made him the best 
Friend I had of all the rest! 

30 











THINKIN’ BACK 


Thinkin' back, I even hear 
Them a-callin’, high and clear, 

Up the crick-banks, where they seem 
Still hid in there—like a dream— 
And me still a-pantin’ on 
The green pathway they have gone! 
Still they hide, by bend er ford— 
Still they hide—but, thank the Lord, 
(Thinkin' back, as I have said), 

I hear laughin’ on ahead! 






JUST TO BE GOOD 


J UST to be good— 

This is enough—enough! 

0 we who find sin’s billows wild and rough, 
Do we not feel how more than any gold 
Would be the blameless life we led of old 
While yet our lips knew but a mother’s kiss ? 
Ah! though we miss 
All else but this, 

To be good is enough! 

It is enough— 

Enough—just to be good! 

To lift our hearts where they are understood; 
To let the thirst for worldly power and place 
Go unappeased; to smile back in God’s face 
With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. 
Ah! though we miss 
All else but this, 

To be good is enough! 

34 


* 












HIS ROOM 


“T’M home again, my dear old Room, 

I’m home again, and happy, too, 

As, peering through the brightening gloom, 

I find myself alone with you: 

Though brief my stay, nor far away, 

I missed you—missed you night and day— 
As wildly yearned for you as now.— 

Old Room, how are you, anyhow? 

“My easy chair, with open arms, 

Awaits me just within the door; 

The littered carpet’s woven charms 

Have never seemed so bright before,— 

The old rosettes and mignonettes 
And ivy-leaves and violets, 

Look up as pure and fresh of hue 
As though baptized in morning dew. 

37 



HIS ROOM 


"Old Room, to me your homely walls 
Fold round me like the arms of love, 
And over all my being falls 
A blessing pure as from above— 

Even as a nestling child caressed 
And lulled upon a loving breast, 
With folded eyes, too glad to weep 
And yet too sad for dreams or sleep. 


"You've been so kind to me, old Room— 
So patient in your tender care, 

My drooping heart in fullest bloom 
Has blossomed for you unaware; 

And who but you had cared to woo 
A heart so dark, and heavy, too, 

As in the past you lifted mine 
From out the shadow to the shine? 


"For I was but a wayward boy 
When first you gladly welcomed me 
And taught me work was truer joy 
Than rioting incessantly: 

And thus the din that stormed within 
The old guitar and violin 
Has fallen in a fainter tone 
And sweeter, for your sake alone. 

38 









HIS ROOM 


“Though in my absence I have stood 
In festal halls a favored guest, 

I missed, in this old quietude, 

My worthy work and worthy rest— 
By this I know that long ago 
You loved me first, and told me so 
In art’s mute eloquence of speech 
The voice of praise may never reach. 

“For lips and eyes in truth’s disguise 
Confuse the faces of my friends, 

Till old affection’s fondest ties 
I find unraveling at the ends; 

But as I turn to you, and learn 
To meet my griefs with less concern, 
Your love seems all I have to keep 
Me smiling lest I needs must weep. 


“Yet I am happy, and would fain 
Forget the world and all its woes; 

So set me to my tasks again, 

Old Room, and lull me to repose: 

And as we glide adown the tide 
Of dreams, forever side by side, 

I’ll hold your hands as lovers do 
Their sweethearts’ and talk love to you.’ 
41 


WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD 
WHEN WE SMILE 


W E are not always glad when we smile: 

Though we wear a fair face and are gay, 
And the world we deceive 
May not ever believe 
We could laugh in a happier way.— 

Yet, down in the deeps of the soul, 

Ofttimes, with our faces aglow, 

There's an ache and a moan 
That we know of alone, 

And as only the hopeless may know. 

We are not always glad when we smile,— 

For the heart, in a tempest of pain, 

May live in the guise 
Of a smile in the eyes 
As a rainbow may live in the rain; 

And the stormiest night of our woe 
May hang out a radiant star 
Whose light in the sky 
Of despair is a lie 

As black as the thunder-clouds are. 

42 


WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE 


We are not always glad when we smile!— 
But the conscience is quick to record, 

All the sorrow and sin 
We are hiding within 
Is plain in the sight of the Lord: 

And ever, 0 ever, till pride 

And evasion shall cease to defile 
The sacred recess 
Of the soul, we confess 
We are not always glad when we smile. 



THE MULBERRY TREE 


IT’S many’s the scenes which is dear to my 
mind 

As I think of my childhood so long left behind; 

The home of my birth, with its old puncheon-floor, 
And the bright morning-glories that growed round 
the door; 

The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off 
Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft, 
Countin’ all of the joys that was dearest to me, 

And a-thinkin’ the most of the mulberry tree. 

And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake, 
I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake, 
And the long purple berries that rained on the 
ground 

Whare the pastur’ was bald whare we trommpt it 
around. 

And again, peekin’ up through the thick leafy shade, 
I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I 
strayed 

With my little bare feet from my own mother’s knee 
To foiler them off to the mulberry tree. 

44 



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THE MULBERRY TREE 


Leanin , up in the forks, I can see the old rail, 

And the boy climbin’ up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail, 
And id fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands, 
The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants. 

But that rail led to glory, as cert’in and shore 
As I’ll never climb thare by that rout’ any more— 
What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me, 
With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree! 

Then it's who can fergit the old mulberry tree 
That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was 
as free 

As the flutterin’ wings of the birds that flew out 
Of the tall wavin’ tops as the boys come about? 

0, a crowd of my memories, laughin’ and gay, 

Is a-climbin’ the fence of that pastur’ to-day, 

And, a-pantin’ with joy, as us boys ust to be, 

They go racin’ acrost fer the mulberry tree. 


THE QUEST 


I AM looking for Love. Has he passed this way, 
With eyes as blue as the skies of May, 

And a face as fair as the summer dawn?— 

You answer back, but I wander on,— 

For you say: “Oh, yes; but his eyes were gray, 

And his face as dim as a rainy day.” 

Good friends, I query, I search for Love; 

His eyes are as blue as the skies above, 

And his smile as bright as the midst of May 
When the truce-bird pipes: Has he passed this 
way? 

And one says: “Ay; but his face, alack! 

Frowned as he passed, and his eyes were black.” 

0 who will tell me of Love ? I cry! 

His eyes are as blue as the mid-May sky, 

And his face as bright as the morning sun; 

And you answer and mock me, every one, 

That his eyes were dark, and his face was wan, 
And he passed you frowning and wandered on. 

48 


THE QUEST 


But stout of heart will I onward fare, 
Knowing my Love is beyond—somewhere,— 
The Love I seek, with the eyes of blue, 

And the bright, sweet smile unknown of you; 
And on from the hour his trail is found 
I shall sing sonnets the whole year round. 




A FEEL IN THE CHRIS’MAS-AIR 


rjTHEY’S a kind o’ feel in the air, to me, 
When the Chris’mas-times sets in, 
That’s about as much of a mystery 
As ever I’ve run ag’in’!— 

Fer instunce, now, whilse I gain in weight 
And gineral health, I swear 
They’s a goneness som’ers I can’t quite state— 
A kind o’ feel in the air. 


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A FEEL IN THE CHRIS’MAS AIR 


They’s a feel in the Chris’mas-air goes right 
To the spot where a man lives at!— 

It gives a feller a’ appetite— 

They ain’t no doubt about that !— 

And yit they’s somepin’ —I don’t know what— 
That follers me, here and there, 

And ha’nts and worries and spares me not— 

A kind o’ feel in the air! 

They’s a feel, as I say, in the air that’s jest 
As blame-don sad as sweet!— 

In the same ra-sho as I feel the best 
And am spryest on my feet, 

They’s alius a kind o’ sort of a’ ache 
That I can’t lo-cate no-where;— 

But it comes with Chris’mas, and no mistake! 
A kind o’ feel in the air. 

Is it the racket the childern raise?— 

W’y, no! —God bless ’em!— no! — 

Is it the eyes and the cheeks ablaze— 

Like my own wuz, long ago?— 

Is it the bleat o’ the whistle and beat 
O’ the little toy-drum and blare 
O’ the horn?— No! no! —it is jest the sweet— 
The sad-sweet feel in the air. 

53 



FOR YOU 


F OR you, I could forget the gay 
Delirium of merriment, 

And let my laughter die away 
In endless silence of content. 

I could forget, for your dear sake, 
The utter emptiness and ache 
Of every loss I ever knew.— 
What could I not forget for you? 
54 





FOR YOU 


I could forget the just deserts 
Of mine own sins, and so erase 
The tear that burns, the smile that hurts, 
And all that mars or masks my face. 

For your fair sake I could forget 
The bonds of life that chafe and fret, 
Nor care if death were false or true.— 
What could I not forget for you? 

What could I not forget? Ah me! 

One thing, I know, would still abide 
For ever in my memory, 

Though all of love were lost beside— 

I yet would feel how first the wine 
Of your sweet lips made fools of mine 
Until they sung, all drunken through— 
“What could I not forget for you?” 




THE PLAINT HUMAN 

S EASON of snows, and season of flowers, 
Seasons of loss and gain!— 

Since grief and joy must alike be ours, 
Why do we still complain? 

Ever our failing, from sun to sun, 

0 my intolerant brother— 

We want just a little too little of one, 

And much too much of the other. 

56 


f 


AS CREATED 


f I THERE’S a space for good to bloom in 
Every heart of man or woman,— 
And however wild or human, 

Or however brimmed with gall, 

Never heart may beat without it; 

And the darkest heart to doubt it 
Has something good about it 

After all. 


57 





WHERE-AWAY 

O THE Lands of Where-Away! 

Tell us—tell us—where are they? 
Through the darkness and the dawn 
We have journeyed on and on— 

From the cradle to the cross— 

From possession unto loss.— 

Seeking still, from day to day, 

For the Lands of Where-Away. 

When our baby-feet were first 
Planted where the daisies burst, 

And the greenest grasses grew 
In the fields we wandered through,— 
On, with childish discontent, 

Ever on and on we went, 

Hoping still to pass, some day, 

O’er the verge of Where-Away. 

58 





























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WHERE-AWAY 


Roses laid their velvet lips 
On our own, with fragrant sips; 

But their kisses held us not, 

All their sweetness we forgot;— 

Though the brambles in our track 
Plucked at us to hold us back— 

“Just ahead,” we used to say, 

“Lie the Lands of Where-Away.” 

Children at the pasture-bars, 

Through the dusk, like glimmering stars, 
Waved their hands that we should bide 
With them over eventide; 

Down the dark their voices failed 
Falteringly, as they hailed, 

And died into yesterday— 

Night ahead and—Where-Away? 

Twining arms about us thrown— 

Warm caresses, all our own, 

Can but stay us for a spell— 

Love hath little new to tell 
To the soul in need supreme, 

Aching ever with the dream 
Of the endless bliss it may 
Find in Lands of Where-Away! 

61 


1 



DREAMER, SAY 


D REAMER, say, will you dream for me 
A wild sweet dream of a foreign land 
Whose border sips of a foaming sea 
With lips of coral and silver sand; 

Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, 
Or lave themselves in the tearful mist 
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps 
O'er crags of opal and amethyst? 

62 






DREAMER, SAY 


Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream 
Of tropic shades in the lands of shine, 

Where the lily leans o’er an amber stream 
That flows like a rill of wasted wine,— 

Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green, 
Parry the shafts of the Indian sun 
Whose splintering vengeance falls between 
The reeds below where the waters run? 

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love 
That lives in a land of sweet perfume, 

Where the stars drip down from the skies above 
In molten spatters of bud and bloom? 

Where never the weary eyes are wet, 

And never a sob in the balmy air, 

And only the laugh of the paroquette 
Breaks the sleep of the silence there? 






OUR OWN 


rpHE Y walk here with us, hand-in-hand ° 
We gossip, knee-by-knee; 

They tell us all that they have planned— 
Of all their joys to be,— 

And, laughing, leave us: And, to-day, 

All desolate we cry 

Across wide waves of voiceless graves— 
Good-by! Good-by! Good-by! . 

64 





THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 


O THE old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy! 

What canopied king might not covet the joy? 
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine, 

Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine: 

The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the 
light, 

But daintily drawn from its hiding at night. 

0 a nest of delight, from the foot to the head, 

Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed! 

0 the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw 
The stars through the window, and listened with awe 
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept 
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly 
slept: 

Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the 
wren, 

And the katydid listlessly chirrup again, 

Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led 
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle- 
bed. 


65 


THE OLD TRUNDLE-BED 


0 the old trundle-bed! 0 the old trundle-bed! 
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned 
spread; 

Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above, 
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches 
of love; 

The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep 
With the old fairy-stories my memories keep 
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o’er the head 
Once bowed o’er my own in the old trundle-bed. 


















WHO BIDES HIS TIME 

W HO bides his time, and day by day 
Faces defeat full patiently, 

And lifts a mirthful roundelay, 

However poor his fortunes be,— 

He will not fail in any qualm 
Of poverty—the paltry dime 
It will grow golden in his palm, 

Who bides his time. 

69 


WHO BIDES HIS TIME 


Who bides his time—he tastes the sweet 
Of honey in the saltest tear; 

And though he fares with slowest feet, 
Joy runs to meet him, drawing near; 
The birds are heralds of his cause; 

And, like a never-ending rhyme, 

The roadsides bloom in his applause, 

Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time, and fevers not 
In the hot race that none achieves, 
Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought 
With crimson berries in the leaves; 

And he shall reign a goodly king, 

And sway his hand o’er every clime, 
With peace writ on his signet-ring, 

Who bides his time. 






NATURAL PERVERSITIES 


T AM not prone to moralize 
In scientific doubt 
On certain facts that Nature tries 
To puzzle us about,— 

For I am no philosopher 
Of wise elucidation, 

But speak of things as they occur, 
From simple observation. 

I notice little things—to wit:— 

I never missed a train 
Because I didn't run for it; 

I never knew it rain 
That my umbrella wasn’t lent,— 

Or, when in my possession, 

The sun but wore, to all intent, 

A jocular expression. 

71 


NATURAL PERVERSITIES 


I never knew a creditor 
To dun me for a debt 
But I was “cramped” or “busted;” 

I never knew one yet, 

When I had plenty in my purse, 

To make the least invasion,— 

As I, accordingly perverse, 

Have courted no occasion. 

Nor do I claim to comprehend 
What Nature has in view 
In giving us the very friend 
To trust we oughtn’t to.— 

But so it is: The trusty gun 
Disastrously exploded 
Is always sure to be the one 
We didn’t think was loaded. 

Our moaning is another’s mirth,— 
And what is worse by half, 

We say the funniest thing on earth 
And never raise a laugh: 

Mid friends that love us overwell, 
And sparkling jests and liquor, 
Our hearts somehow are liable 
To melt in tears the quicker. 

72 










NATURAL PERVERSITIES 


We reach the wrong when most we seek 
The right; in like effect, 

We stay the strong and not the weak— 
Do most when we neglect.— 
Neglected genius—truth be said— 

As wild and quick as tinder, 

The more we seek to help ahead 
The more we seem to hinder. 

I’ve known the least the greatest, too— 
And, on the selfsame plan, 

The biggest fool I ever knew 
Was quite a little man: 

We find we ought, and then we won't— 
We prove a thing, then doubt it,— 
Know everything but when we don't 
Know anything about it. 



A SCRAWL 

T WANT to sing something—but this is all— 

I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull 
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall 
Limp and unlovable. 

Words will not say what I yearn to say— 

They will not walk as I want them to, 

But they stumble and fall in the path of the way 
Of my telling my love for you. 

Simply take what the scrawl is worth— 
Knowing I love you as the sun the sod 
On the ripening side of the great round earth 
That swings in the smile of God. 

76 



WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 


M Y dear old friends—It jes beats all, 
The way you write a letter 
So’s ever' last line beats the first, 

And ever’ next- un’s better!— 

W’y, ever’ fool-thing you putt down 
You make so internin’, 

A feller, readin’ of 'em all, 

Can’t tell which is the best- un. 

It’s all so comfortin’ and good, 
’Pears-like I almost hear ye 
And git more sociabler, you know, 

And hitch my cheer up near ye 
And jes smile on ye like the sun 
Acrosst the whole per-rairies 
In Aprile when the thaw’s begun 
And country couples marries. 

77 


WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 


It’s all so good-old-fashioned like 
To talk jes like we’re thinkin’, 
Without no hidin’ back o’ fans 
And giggle-un and winkin’, 

Ner sizin’ how each-other’s dressed— 
Like some is alius doin’,— 

“Is Marthy Ellen’s basque be’n turned 
Er shore-enough a new-un!”— 

Er “ef Steve’s city-friend haint jes 
‘A lee tie kindo’-sorto’ ’ ”— 

Er “wears them-air blame eye-glasses 
Jes ’cause he hadn’t ort to?” 

And so straight on, dad-libitum, 

Tel all of us feels, some way, 

Jes like our “comp’ny” wuz the best 
When we git up to come ’way! 

That’s why I like old friends like you,— 
Jes ’cause you’re so abidin ’.— 

Ef I was built to live “fer keeps 
My principul residin’ 

Would be amongst the folks ’at kep’ 

Me alius thinkin ’ of ’em, 

And sorto’ eechin’ all the time 
To tell ’em how I love ’em.— 

78 
















WRITIN’ BACK TO THE HOME-FOLKS 

Sich folks, you know, I jes love so 
I wouldn’t live without ’em, 

Er couldn’t even drap asleep 
But what I dreamp’ about ’em,— 

And ef we minded God, I guess 
We’d all love one-another 
Jes like one fam’bly,—me and Pap 
And Madaline and Mother. 



THE SONG OF YESTERDAY 


I 

T>UT yesterday 

^ I looked away 

O’er happy lands, where sunshine lay 

In golden blots 

Inlaid with spots 

Of shade and wild forget-me-nots. 

My head was fair 
With flaxen hair, 

And fragrant breezes, faint and rare, 

And warm with drouth 
From out the south, 

Blew all my curls across my mouth. 

And, cool and sweet, 

My naked feet 

Found dewy pathways through the wheat; 
And out again 
Where, down the lane, 

The dust was dimpled with the rain. 

82 



I 










THE SONG OF YESTERDAY 


II 


But yesterday!— 

Adream, astray, 

From morning’s red to evening’s gray, 
O’er dales and hills 
Of daffodills 

And lorn sweet-fluting whippoorwills. 

I knew nor cares 
Nor tears nor prayers— 

A mortal god, crowned unawares 
With sunset—and 
A scepter-wand 
Of apple-blossoms in my hand! 

The dewy blue 

Of twilight grew 

To purple, with a star or two 

Whose lisping rays 

Failed in the blaze 

Of sudden fireflies through the haze. 


85 


THE SONG OF YESTERDAY 


III 


But yesterday 
I heard the lay 

Of summer birds, when I, as they 
With breast and wing, 

All quivering 

With life and love, could only sing. 


My head was lent 
Where, with it, blent 
A maiden’s o’er her instrument; 
While all the night, 

From vale to height, 

Was filled with echoes of delight. 


And all our dreams 

Were lit with gleams 

Of that lost land of reedy streams, 

Along whose brim 

Forever swim 

Pan’s lilies, laughing up at him. 


86 











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THE SONG OF YESTERDAY 


IV 


But yesterday! . . . 

0 blooms of May, 

And summer roses—where-away? 

0 stars above; 

And lips of love, 

And all the honeyed sweets thereof!— 


0 lad and lass, 

And orchard pass, 

And briered lane, and daisied grass! 
0 gleam and gloom, 

And woodland bloom, 

And breezy breaths of all perfume!— 

No more for me 
Or mine shall be 

Thy raptures—save in memory,— 
No more—no more— 

Till through the Door 

Of Glory gleam the days of yore. 



SONG OF PARTING 


S AY farewell, and let me go; 

Shatter every vow! 

All the future can bestow 
Will be welcome now! 

And if this fair hand I touch 
I have worshipped overmuch, 
It was my mistake—and so, 
Say farewell, and let me go. 
90 


SONG OF PARTING 


Say farewell, and let me go: 

Murmur no regret, 

Stay your tear-drops ere they flow— 

Do not waste them yet! 

They might pour as pours the rain, 
And not wash away the pain: 

I have tried them and I know.— 
Say farewell, and let me go. 

Say farewell, and let me go: 

Think me not untrue— 

True as truth is, even so 
I am true to you! 

If the ghost of love may stay 
Where my fond heart dies to-day, 

I am with you alway—so, 

Say farewell, and let me go. 









LAUGHTER HOLDING BOTH HIS SIDES 



Y, thou varlet!—Laugh away! 


± All the world’s a holiday! 

Laugh away, and roar and shout 
Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out! 
Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes 
Unto bursting; pelt thy thighs 
With thy swollen palms, and roar 
As thou never hast before! 

Lustier! wilt thou! peal, on peal! 
Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel— 
Wrestle with thy loins, and then 
Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again! 


92 


OUR KIND OF A MAN 


I 

rriHE kind of a man for you and me! 

He faces the world unflinchingly, 

And smites, as long as the wrong resists, 

With a knuckled faith and force like fists: 

He lives the life he is preaching of, 

And loves where most is the need of love; 

His voice is clear to the deaf man’s ears, 

And his face sublime through the blind man’s tears; 
The light shines out where the clouds were dim, 

And the widow’s prayer goes up for him; 

The latch is clicked at the hovel door 
And the sick man sees the sun once more, 

And out o’er the barren fields he sees 
Springing blossoms and waving trees, 

Feeling as only the dying may, 

That God’s own servant has come that way, 
Smoothing the path as it still winds on 
Through the Golden Gate where his loved have gone. 
93 


OUR KIND OF A MAN 


II 

The kind of a man for me and you! 

However little of worth we do 
He credits full, and abides in trust 
That time will teach us how more is just. 

He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds 
Of querulous and uneasy minds, 

And, sympathizing, he shares the pain 
Of the doubts that rack us, heart and brain; 

And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand, 

We are surely coming to understand! 

He looks on sin with pitying eyes— 

E’en as the Lord, since Paradise,— 

Else, should we read, “Though our sins should glow 
As scarlet, they shall be white as snow”?— 

And, feeling still, with a grief half glad, 

That the bad are as good as the good are bad, 

He strikes straight out for the Right—and he 
Is the kind of a man for you and me! 



“HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT V 

“TTOW did you rest, last night?”— 

I’ve heard my gran’pap say 
Them words a thousand times—that’s right— 
Jes them words thataway! 

As punctchul-like as morning dast 
To ever heave in sight 
Gran’pap ’ud alius haf to ast— 

“How did you rest, last night?” 

95 


HOW DID YOU REST, LAST NIGHT?” 


Us young-uns used to grin, 

At breakfast, on the sly, 

And mock the wobble of his chin 
And eyebrows helt so high 
And kind: “How did you rest, last night?” 

We’d mumble and let on 
Our voices trimbled, and our sight 
Was dim, and hearin’ gone. 


Bad as I used to be, 

All I’m a-wantin’ is 
As puore and ca’m a sleep fer me 
And sweet a sleep as his! 

And so I pray, on Jedgment Day 
To wake, and with its light 
See his face dawn, and hear him say— 
“How did you rest, last night?” 






V 












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OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 

O UT of the hitherwhere into the Yon— 

The land that the Lord’s love rests upon; 
Where one may rely on the friends he meets, 
And the smiles that greet him along the streets: 
Where the mother that left you years ago 
Will lift the hands that were folded so, 

And put them about you, with all the love 
And tenderness you are dreaming of. 

99 



OUT OF THE HITHERWHERE 


Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon— 

Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,— 
Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you, 
Will laugh again as he used to do, 

Running to meet you, with such a face 
As lights like a moon the wondrous place 
Where God is living, and glad to live, 

Since He is the Master and may forgive. 

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon!— 

Stay the hopes we are leaning on— 

You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes 
Looking down from the far-away skies,— 

Smile upon us, and reach and take 

Our worn souls Home for the old home’s sake.— 

And so Amen,—for our all seems gone 

Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon. 






'OUT OF REACH” 


"XT’OU think them “out of reach,” your dead ? 

Nay, by my own dead, I deny 
Your “out of reach.”—Be comforted: 

Tis not so far to die. 


0 by their dear remembered smiles 

And outheld hands and welcoming speech, 
They wait for us, thousands of miles 
This side of “out-of-reach.” 

101 


* 



JACK-IN-THE-BOX 

(Grandfather, musing.) 

TN childish days! 0 memory, 

You bring such curious things to me 
Laughs to the lip—tears to the eye, 

In looking on the gifts that lie 
Like broken playthings scattered o'er 
Imagination's nursery floor! 

Did these old hands once click the key 
That let “Jack's” box-lid upward fly, 
And that blear-eyed, fur-whiskered elf 
Leap, as though frightened at himself, 
And quiveringly lean and stare 
At me, his jailer, laughing there? 

102 


2 







JACK-IN-THE-BOX 


A child then! Now—I only know 
They call me very old; and so 
They will not let me have my way,— 

But uselessly I sit all day 

Here by the chimney-jamb, and poke 

The lazy fire, and smoke and smoke, 

And watch the wreaths swoop up the flue, 
And chuckle—ay, I often do— 

Seeing again, all vividly, 

Jack-in-the-box leap, as in glee 
To see how much he looks like me! 

. . . They talk. I can’t hear what they say— 
But I am glad, clean through and through 
Sometimes, in fancying that they 
Are saying, “Sweet, that fancy strays 
In age back to our childish days!” 



THE BOYS 


W HERE are they?—the friends of my childhood 
enchanted— 

The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own, 
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so 
wanted. 

As when we raced over 

Pink pastures of clover, 

And mocked the quail’s whir and the bumblebee’s 
drone? 


Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces 
Forever adrift down the years that are flown? 

Am I never to see them romp back to their places, 
Where over the meadow, 

In sunshine and shadow, 

The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone? • 


Where are they ? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover; 

The whippoorwill’s call has a sorrowful tone, 

And the dove’s—I have wept at it over and over;— 

I want the glad luster 

Of youth, and the cluster 
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone! 

106 

























) 




























IT’S GOT TO BE 


W HEN it's got to be,”—like I always say, 
As I notice the years whiz past, 

And know each day is a yesterday, 

When we size it up, at last,— 

Same as I said when my boyhood went 
And I knowed we had to quit,— 

“It’s got to be, and it’s goin’ to be!”— 

So I said "Good-by” to it. 

It's got to be, and it’s goin’ to be! 

So at least I always try 
To kind o' say in a hearty way,— 

"Well, it's got to be. Good-by!” 

109 



IT’S GOT TO BE 


The time jes melts like a late, last snow,— 
When it’s got to be, it melts! 

But I aim to keep a cheerful mind, 

Ef I can’t keep nothin’ else! 

I knowed, when I come to twenty-one, 
That I’d soon be twenty-two,— 

So I waved one hand at the soft young man, 
And I said, “Good-by to you!” 

It’s got to be, and it’s goirC to be! 

So at least I always try 
To kind o’ say, in a cheerful way,— 

“Well, it’s got to be.—Good-by!” 

They kep’ a-goin’, the years and years, 

Yet still I smiled and smiled,— 

For I’d said “Good-by” to my single life, 
And I now had a wife and child: 

Mother and son and the father—one,— 
Till, last, on her bed of pain, 

She jes’ smiled up, like she always done,— 
And I said “Good-by” again. 

It’s got to be, and it’s goin’ to be! 

So at least I always try 
To kind o’ say, in a humble way,— 

“Well, it’s got to be. Good-by!” 

110 





I 









IT’S GOT TO BE 


And then my boy—as he growed to be 
Almost a man in size,— 

Was more than a pride and joy to me, 

With his mother’s smilin’ eyes.— 

He gimme the slip, when the War broke out, 
And followed me. And I 
Never knowed till the first fight’s end . . 

I found him, and then, . . . “Good-by.” 

It’s got to be, and it’s goin ’ to be! 

So at least I always try 
To kind o’ say, in a patient way, 

“Well, it’s got to be. Good-by!” 

I have said, “Good-by!—Good-by!—Good-by 
With my very best good will, 

All through life from the first,—and I 
Am a cheerful old man still: 

But it’s got to end, and it’s goin’ to end! 

And this is the thing I’ll do,— 

With my last breath I will laugh, 0 Death, 
And say “Good-by” to you! . . . 

It’s got to be! And again I say,— 

When his old scythe circles high, 

I’ll laugh—of course, in the kindest way,— 
As I say “Good-by!—Good-by!” 



“A BRAVE REFRAIN” 


W HEN snow is here, and the trees look weird, 
And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost; 
When the breath congeals in the drover’s beard, 
And the old pathway to the barn is lost; 

When the rooster’s crow is sad to hear, 

And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain. 

And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear— 

0 then is the time for a brave refrain! 

114 



‘A BRAVE REFRAIN’ 


When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg, 

And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks; 

And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg, 

And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle 
squeaks; 

When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap, 

And the frost is scratched from the window-pane 
And anxious eyes from the inside peep— 

0 then is the time for a brave refrain! 

When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb, 

And hob-nailed shoes on the hearth below, 

And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm, 

And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow; 
When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil 
’Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain 
Sniffs the breath of the morning meal— 

0 then is the time for a brave refrain! 

ENVOI 

When the skillet seethes, and a blubbering hot 
Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot, 

And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain— 
0 then is the time for a brave refrain! 

115 



IN THE EVENING 

I 

TN the evening of our days, 

When the first far stars above 
Glimmer dimmer, through the haze, 

Than the dewy eyes of love, 

Shall we mournfully revert 
To the vanished morns and Mays 
Of our youth, with hearts that hurt,— 
In the evening of our days? 

116 


IN THE EVENING 


II 

Shall the hand that holds your own 
Till the twain are thrilled as now, 
Be withheld, or colder grown? 

Shall my kiss upon your brow 
Falter from its high estate? 

And, in all forgetful ways, 

Shall we sit apart and wait— 

In the evening of our days? 


Ill 

Nay, my wife—my life!—the gloom 
Shall enfold us velvet wise, 

And my smile shall be the groom 
Of the gladness of your eyes: 
Gently, gently as the dew 

Mingles with the darkening maze, 
I shall fall asleep with you— 

In the evening of our days. 



JIM 


TTE was jes a plain, ever’-day, all-round kind of a 
jour., 

Consumpted-lookin’—but la! 

The jokiest, wittiest, story-tellm’, song-singin', 
laughin’est, joiliest 
Feller you ever saw! 

Worked at jes coarse work, but you km bet he was 
fine enough in his talk, 

And his feeliiTs, too! 

Lordy! ef he was on’y back on his bench ag’in to-day, 
a-carryin’ on 
Like he ust to do! 


118 





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JIM 


Any shop-mate , ll tell you there never was, on top o’ 
dirt, 

A better feller’n Jim! 

You want a favor, and couldn’t git it anywheres 
else— 

You could git it o’ him! 

Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I 
guess! 

Give up ever’ nickel he’s worth— 

And, ef you’d ’a’ wanted it, and named it to him, and 
it was his, 

He’d ’a’ give you the earth! 

Alius a-reachin’ out, Jim was, and a-he’ppin’ some 

Pore feller on to his feet— 

He’d V never ’a’ keered how hungry he was hisse’f, 

So’s the feller got somepin’ to eat! 

Didn’t make no differ’nce at all to him how he was 
dressed, 

He ust to say to me,— 

“You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter¬ 
time, a-huntin’ a job, 

And he’ll git along!” says he. 


121 


JIM 


Jim didn’t have, ner never could git ahead, so overly 
much 

O’ this world’s goods at a time.— 

’Fore now I’ve saw him, more’n onc’t, lend a dollar, 
and haf to, more’n like, 

Turn round and borry a dime! 

Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse’f fer a while— 
then jerk his coat, 

And kindo’ square his chin, 

Tie on his apern, and squat hisse’f on his old shoe- 
bench, 

And go to peggin’ ag’in! 

Patientest feller, too, I reckon, ’at ever jes natchurly 
Coughed hisse’f to death! 

Long enough after his voice was lost he’d laugh in a 
whisper and say 

He could git ever’thing but his breath— 

“You fellers,” he’d sorto’ twinkle his eyes and say, 
“Is a-pilin’ on to me 

A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested 
ghost o’ mine to pack 
Through all Eternity!” 


122 


JIM 


Now there was a man ’at jes ’peared-like, to me, 

’At ortn’t V never ’a’ died! 

“But death hain’t a-showin’ no favors,” the old boss 
said— 

“On’y to Jim!” and cried: 

And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the 
shop— 

Er the whole blame neighborhood,— 

He says, “When God made Jim, I bet you He didn’t 
do anything else that day 
But jes set around and feel good!” 




THE BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH 

T QUARREL not with Destiny, 

But make the best of everything— 
The best is good enough for me. 

Leave Discontent alone, and she 
Will shut her mouth and let you sing. 
I quarrel not with Destiny. 

I take some things, or let 'em be— 
Good gold has always got the ring; 
The best is good enough for me. 

124 





THE BEST IS GOOD ENOUGH 

Since Fate insists on secrecy, 

I have no arguments to bring— 

I quarrel not with Destiny. 

The fellow that goes “haw” for “gee” 
Will find he hasn’t got full swing. 

The best is good enough for me. 

One only knows our needs, and He 
Does all of the distributing. 

I quarrel not with Destiny; 

The best is good enough for me. 



AS MY UNCLE UST TO SAY 


T’VE thought a power on men and things, 

As my uncle ust to say,— 

And ef folks don’t work as they pray, i jings! 

W’y, they ain’t no use to pray! 

Ef you want somepin’, and jes dead-set 
A-pleadin’ fer it with both eyes wet, 

And tears won’t bring it, w’y, you try sweat , 
As my uncle ust to say. 

They’s some don’t know their A, B, C’s, 

As my uncle ust to say, 

And yit don’t waste no candle-grease, 

Ner whistle their lives away! 

But ef they can’t write no book, ner rhyme 
No singin’ song fer to last all time, 

They can blaze the way fer the march sublime* 
As my uncle ust to say. 










AS MY UNCLE UST TO SAY 


Whoever’s Foreman of all things here, 

As my uncle ust to say, 

He knows each job ’at we’re best fit fer, 
And our round-up, night and day: 

And a-sizin’ His work, east and west, 

And north and south, and worst and best, 
I ain’t got nothin’ to suggest, 

As my uncle ust to say. 




A GOOD MAN 


A GOOD man never dies— 

In worthy deed and prayer 
And helpful hands, and honest eyes, 
If smiles or tears be there: 

Who lives for you and me— 

Lives for the world he tries 
To help—he lives eternally. 

A good man never dies. 


II 

Who lives to bravely take 
His share of toil and stress, 

And, for his weaker fellows' sake, 

Makes every burden less,— 

He may, at last, seem worn— 

Lie fallen—hands and eyes 
Folded—yet, though we mourn and mourn, 
A good man never dies. 

130 





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THE OLD DAYS 


T HE old days—the far days— 

The overdear and fair!— 

The old days—the lost days— 

How lovely they were! 

The old days of Morning, 

With the dew-drench on the flowers 
And apple-buds and blossoms 
Of those old days of ours. 

133 


THE OLD DAYS 


Then was the real gold 
Spendthrift Summer flung; 

Then was the real song 
Bird or Poet sung! 

There was never censure then,— 
Only honest praise— 

And all things were worthy of it 
In the old days. 

There bide the true friends— 
The first and the best; 

There clings the green grass 
Close where they rest: 

Would they were here? No;— 
Would we were there! . . . 

The old days—the lost days— 
How lovely they were! 





HONEY DRIPPING FROM THE COMB 


TTOW slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting 
Upon the dead sea of the Past!—A view— 
Sometimes an odor—or a rooster lifting 
A far-off “Ooh! ooh-ooh!” 

And suddenly we find ourselves astray 
In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago— 

Or idly dream again upon a day 
Of rest we used to know. 

I bit an apple but a moment since— 

A wilted apple that the worm had spurned— 

Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints 
Of good old days returned.— 

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, 

Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, 

God's blessing must be resting on the fruit— 

So bitter, yet so sweet! 

1B5 


KNEELING WITH HERRICK 


T^iEAR Lord, to Thee my knee is bent.- 
Give me content— 

Full-pleasured with what comes to me, 
Whate’er it be: 

An humble roof—a frugal board, 

And simple hoard; 

The wintry fagot piled beside 
The chimney wide, 

While the enwreathing flames up-sprout 
And twine about 

The brazen dogs that guard my hearth 
And household worth: 

Tinge with the ember’s ruddy glow 
The rafters low; 

And let the sparks snap with delight, 

As fingers might 

That mark deft measures of some tune 
The children croon: 

Then, with good friends, the rarest few 
Thou holdest true, 

Ranged round about the blaze, to share 
My comfort there,— 

Give me to claim the service meet 
That makes each seat 

A place of honor, and each guest 
Loved as the rest. 

136 



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THE RAINY MORNING 


rpiHE dawn of the day was dreary, 

And the lowering clouds o’erhead 
Wept in a silent sorrow 

Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; 
And a wind came out of the eastward 
Like an endless sigh of pain, 

And the leaves fell down in the pathway 
And writhed in the falling rain. 

139 





THE RAINY MORNING 


I had tried in a brave endeavor 
To chord my harp with the sun, 

But the strings would slacken ever, 
And the task was a weary one: 

And so, like a child impatient 
And sick of a discontent, 

I bowed in a shower of teardrops 
And mourned with the instrument. 

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor 
Of the sun bent over me, 

With a touch as warm and tender 
As a father’s hand might be: 

And even as I felt its presence, 

My clouded soul grew bright, 

And the tears, like the rain of morning, 
Melted in mists of light. 



WE MUST BELIEVE 


“Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief.” 


W E must believe— 

Being from birth endowed with love and trust— 
Born unto loving;—and how simply just 
That love—that faith!—even in the blossom-face 
The babe drops dreamward in its resting-place, 
Intuitively conscious of the sure 
Awakening to rapture ever pure 
And sweet and saintly as the mother's own, 

Or the awed father's, as his arms are thrown 
O'er wife and child, to round about them weave 
And wind and bind them as one harvest-sheaf 
Of love—to cleave to, and forever cleave. . . . 
Lord, I believe : 

Help Thou mine unbelief. 


We must believe— 

Impelled since infancy to seek some clear 
Fulfilment, still withheld all seekers here;— 
For never have we seen perfection nor 
The glory we are ever seeking for: 

141 


WE MUST BELIEVE 


But we have seen—all mortal souls as one— 

Have seen its promise , in the morning sun— 

Its blest assurance, in the stars of night;— 

The ever-dawning of the dark to light;— 

The tears down-falling from all eyes that grieve— 
The eyes uplifting from all deeps of grief, 
Yearning for what at last we shall receive. . . . 
Lord, I believe: 

Help Thou mine unbelief. 


We must believe— 

For still all unappeased our hunger goes, 

From life's first waking, to its last repose: 

The briefest life of any babe, or man 
Outwearing even the allotted span, 

Is each a life unfinished—incomplete: 

For these, then, of th’ outworn, or unworn feet 
Denied one toddling step—0 there must be 
Some fair, green, flowery pathway endlessly 
Winding through lands Elysian! Lord, receive 
And lead each as Thine Own Child—even the Chief 
Of us who didst Immortal life achieve. . . . 
Lord, I believe: 

Help Thou mine unbelief. 

142 



A SPRING SONG AND A LATER 

S HE sang a song of May for me, 
Wherein once more I heard 
The mirth of my glad infancy— 

The orchard's earliest bird— 

The joyous breeze among the trees 
New-clad in leaf and bloom, 

And there the happy honey-bees 
In dewy gleam and gloom. 

So purely, sweetly on the sense 
Of heart and spirit fell 
Her song of Spring, its influence— 

Still irresistible,— 

Commands me here—with eyes ablur— 
To mate her bright refrain, 

Though I but shed a rhyme for her 
As dim as Autumn rain. 

143 



TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACH- 
MAN 

F ER forty year and better you have been a friend 
to me, 

Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity, 
You alius had a kind word of counsul to impart, 
Which was like a healin’ ’intment to the sorrow of 
my hart. 

When I burried my first womern, William Leach- 
man, it was you 

Had the only consolation that I could listen to— 
Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had ral¬ 
lied from the blow, 

And when you said I’d do the same, I knowed you’d 
ort to know. 


144 





























































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TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 

But that time I’ll long remember; how I wundered 
here and thare— 

Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the 
open air— 

And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields 
a frozen glare, 

And the neghbors’ sleds and wagons congergatin’ 
ev'rywhare. 

I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid 
away; 

I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was 
cold and gray; 

And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours 
in two— 

And my eyes’d never thawed out ef it hadn't been 
fer you! 

We set thare by the smoke-house—me and you out 
thare alone— 

Me a-thinkin'—you a-talkin' in a soothin’ under¬ 
tone— 

You a-talkin'—me a-thinkin' of the summers long 
ago, 

And a-writin' “Marthy—Marthy” with my finger in 
the snow! 


147 


TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 

William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I 
could then; 

And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me 
up again, 

And I see the tears a-drippin’ from your own eyes, 
as you say: 

“Be rickonciled and bear it—we but linger fer a 
day!” 


At the last Old Settlers’ Meetin’ we went j’intly, you 
and me— 

Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be; 

And sence I can remember, from the time we’ve 
neghbored here, 

In all sich friendly actions you have double-done 
your sheer. 

It was better than the meetin’, too, that nine-mile 
talk we had 

Of the times when we first settled here and travel 
was so bad; 

When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on 
“Shanks’s mare,” 

And “blaze” a road fer them behind that had to 
travel thare. 


148 


TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEaCHMAN 


And now we was a-trottin’ 'long a level gravel pike, 

In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you 
like— 

Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks 
behind, 

A-settin’ in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of 
mind! 

And we p’inted out old landmarks, nearly faded out 
of sight:— 

Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash 
Morgan had the fight 

With the old stag-deer that pronged him—how he 
battled fer his life, 

And lived to prove the story by the handle of his 
knife. 

Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settle¬ 
ment, and we 

Had tuck our grindin’ to it in the Fall of Forty- 
three— 

When we tuck our rifles with us, techin’ elbows all 
the way, 

And a-stickin’ right together ev’ry minute, night and 
day. 


149 


TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 


Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the 
“Travelers' Rest," 

And thare, beyent the covered bridge, “The Counter- 
fitters' Nest"— 

Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted—that a 
man was murdered thare, 

And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the 
place somewhare. 

And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one 
er two— 

You know we talked about the times when that old 
road was new: 

How “Uncle Sam" put down that road and never 
taxed the State 

Was a problem, don’t you rickollect, we couldn’t 
demonstrate ? 

Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and 
you has past; 

But as I found you true at first, I find you true at 
last; 

And, now the time's a-comin’ mighty nigh our jur- 
ney's end, 

I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my 
friend. 


150 











TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 


With the stren’th of all my bein', and the heat of hart 
and brane, 

And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane, 

I love you and respect you, and I venerate your 
name, 

Fer the name of William Leachman and True Man¬ 
hood's jest the same! 



A BACKWARD LOOK 


AS I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, 

And lazily leaning back in my chair, 
Enjoying myself in a general way— 

Allowing my thoughts a holiday 
From weariness, toil and care,— 

My fancies—doubtless, for ventilation— 

Left ajar the gates of my mind,— 

And Memory, seeing the situation, 

Slipped out in the street of “Auld Lang Syne. ,, 

Wandering ever with tireless feet 
Through scenes of silence, and jubilee 
Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet 
Were thronging the shadowy side of the street 
As far as the eye could see; 

Dreaming again, in anticipation, 

The same old dreams of our boyhood's days 
That never come true, from the vague sensation 
Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways. 
154 










A BACKWARD LOOK 


Away to the house where I was born! 

And there was the selfsame clock that ticked 
From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, 
When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn 
And helped when the apples were picked. 

And the “chany-dog” on the mantel-shelf, 

With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, 

Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself 
Sound asleep with the dear surprise. 

And down to the swing in the locust tree, 

Where the grass was worn from the trampled 
ground 

And where “Eck” Skinner, “Old” Carr, and three 
Or four such other boys used to be 

Doin' “sky-scrapers,” or “whirlin' round:” 

And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest, 
And again “had shows” in the buggy-shed 
Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed, 

The old ghosts romp through the best days dead! 

And again I gazed from the old school-room 
With a wistful look of a long June day, 

When on my cheek was the hectic bloom 
Caught of Mischief, as I presume— 

He had such a “partial” way, 

157 


A BACKWARD LOOK 


It seemed, toward me.—And again I thought 
Of a probable likelihood to be 
Kept in after school—for a girl was caught 
Catching a note from me. 

And down through the woods to the swimming- 
hole— 

Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore 
grows,— 

And we never cared when the water was cold, 

And always “ducked” the boy that told 
On the fellow that tied the clothes.— 

When life went so like a dreamy rhyme, 

That it seems to me now that then 
The world was having a jollier time 
Than it ever will have again. 




AT SEA 

WE go down to sea in ships— 

But Hope remains behind, 

And Love, with laughter on his lips, 
And Peace, of passive mind; 

While out across the deeps of night, 
With lifted sails of prayer, 

We voyage off in quest of light, 

Nor find it anywhere. 

0 Thou who wroughtest earth and sea, 
Yet keepest from our eyes 
The shores of an eternity 
In calms of Paradise, 

Blow back upon our foolish quest 
With all the driving rain 
Of blinding tears and wild unrest, 

And waft us home again. 

159 


THE OLD GUITAR 


N EGLECTED now is the old guitar 
And moldering into decay; 

Fretted with many a rift and scar 
That the dull dust hides away, 

While the spider spins a silver star 
In its silent lips to-day. 

The keys hold only nerveless strings— 

The sinews of brave old airs 
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings 
So closely here declares 
A sad regret in its ravelings 
And the faded hue it wears. 

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THE OLD GUITAR 


But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, 

Has cherished a smile for me; 

And its features hint of a fairer face 
That comes with a memory 
Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place 
And a moonlit balcony. 

Music sweeter than words confess 
Or the minstrel's powers invent, 

Thrilled here once at the light caress 
Of the fairy hands that lent 
This excuse for the kiss I press 
On the dear old instrument. 

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem 
Still blooms; and the tiny sets 
In the circle all are here; the gem 
In the keys, and the silver frets; 

But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them— 
Alas for the heart’s regrets!— 

Alas for the loosened strings to-day, 

And the wounds of rift and scar 
On a worn old heart, with its roundelay 
Enthralled with a stronger bar 
That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay 
Like that of the old guitar! 

163 


JOHN McKEEN 


J OHN McKEEN-, in his rusty dress, 

His loosened collar, and swarthy throat 
His face unshaven, and none the less, 

His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, 

And the wealth of a workman’s vote! 

Bring him, 0 Memory, here once more, 

And tilt him back in his Windsor chair 
By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o’er 
And the light of the hearth is across the floor, 
And the crickets everywhere! 

164 



























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JOHN McKEEN 


And let their voices be gladly blent 

With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, 
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, 

And neighborly gossip and merriment, 

And old-time fiddle-tunes! 

Tick the clock with a wooden sound, 

And fill the hearing with childish glee 
Of rhyming riddle, or story found 
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound 
Old book of the Used-to-be! 

John McKeen of the Past! Ah, John, 

To have grown ambitious in worldly ways!— 
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don 
A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone 
Out on election days! 

John, ah, John! did it prove your worth 
To yield you the office you still maintain? 

To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth 
Of all the happier things on earth 
To the hunger of heart and brain? 


167 


JOHN McKEEN 


Under the dusk of your villa trees, 

Edging the drives where your blooded span 
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease,— 

Where are the children about your knees, 

And the mirth, and the happy man? 

The blinds of your mansion are battened to; 

Your faded wife is a close recluse; 

And your “finished” daughters will doubtless do 
Dutifully all that is willed of you, 

And marry as you shall choose!— 

But 0 for the old-home voices, blent 

With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, 
And the motherly chirrup of glad content. 

And neighborly gossip and merriment, 

And the old-time fiddle-tunes! 




THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 

HERE do you go when you go to sleep, 



Little Boy! Little Boy! where? 
’Way—’way in where’s Little Bo-Peep, 

And Little Boy Blue, and the Cows and Sheep 
A-wandering ’way in there—in there— 
A-wandering ’way in there! 

And what do you see when lost in dreams, 
Little Boy, ’way in there? 

Firefly-glimmers and glowworm-gleams, 

And silvery, low, slow-sliding streams, 

And mermaids, smiling out—’way in where 


They’re a-hiding—’way in there! 
169 


THROUGH SLEEPY-LAND 


Where do you go when the Fairies call, 

Little Boy! Little Boy! where? 

Wade through the dews of the grasses tall, 
Hearing the weir and the waterfall 

And the Wee Folk—'way in there—in there— 
And the Kelpies—’way in there! 

And what do you do when you wake at dawn, 
Little Boy! Little Boy! what? 

Hug my Mommy and kiss her on 
Her smiling eyelids, sweet and wan, 

And tell her everything Fve forgot 
About, a-wandering 'way in there— 

Through the blind-world ’way in there! 



“THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS” 


T)AP he alius ust to say, 

-*• “Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 
Liked to hear him that-a-way, 

In his old split-bottomed cheer 
By the fireplace here at night— 

Wood all in,—and room all bright, 

Warm and snug, and folks all here: 
“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

Me and ’Lize, and Warr’n and Jess 
And Eldory home fer two 
Weeks’ vacation; and, I guess, 

Old folks tickled through and through, 
Same as we was,—“Home onc’t more 
Fer another Chris’mus—shore!” 

Pap ’u’d say, and tilt his cheer,— 
“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

Mostly Pap was ap’ to be 
Ser’ous in his “daily walk,” 

As he called it; giner’ly 

Was no hand to joke er talk. 

Fac’s is, Pap had never be’n 
Rugged-like at all—and then 
Three years in the army had 
Hepped to break him purty bad. 

171 


‘THEM OLD CHEERY WORDS’ 


Never flinched! but frost and snow 
Hurt his wownd in winter. But 
You bet Mother knowed it, though!— 
Watched his feet, and made him putt 
On his flannen; and his knee, 

Where it never healed up, he 
Claimed was “well now—mighty near— 
Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

Pap ’u’d say, and snap his eyes . . . 
Row o' apples sputter’n’ here 

Round the hearth, and me and ’Lize 
Crackin' hicker’-nuts—and Warr’n 
And Eldory parchin’ corn; 

And whole raft o' young folks here. 
“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

Mother tuk most comfort in 
Jest a-heppin’ Pap: She’d fill 
His pipe fer him, er his tin 
O’ hard cider; er set still 
And read fer him out the pile 
O’ newspapers putt on file 
Whilse he was with Sherman—(She 
Knowed the whole war-history!) 

172 











“them old cheeky words” 

Sometimes he’d git het up some.—- 
“Boys,” he’d say, “and you girls, too, 
Chris’mus is about to come; 

So, as you’ve a right to do, 

Celebrate it! Lots has died, 

Same as Him they crucified, 

That you might be happy here. 
Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

Missed his voice last Chris’mus—missed 
Them old cheery words, you know. 
Mother helt up tel she kissed 
All of us—then had to go 
And break down! And I laughs: “Here 
'Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!’” 
“Them’s his very words,” sobbed she, 
“When he asked to marry me.” 

“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 
Over, over, still I hear, 

“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 
Yit, like him, I’m goin’ to smile 
And keep cheerful all the while: 

Alius Chris’mus There —And here 
“Chris’mus comes but onc’t a year!” 

175 


TO THE JUDGE 


A Voice from the Interior of Old Hoop-Pole 
Township 


T^RIEND of my earliest youth, 

Can't you arrange to come down 
And visit a fellow out here in the woods— 

Out of the dust of the town? 

Can’t you forget you’re a Judge 
And put by your dolorous frown 
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend— 
Can’t you arrange to come down? 

176 
















TO THE JUDGE 


Can’t you forget for a while 

The arguments prosy and drear,— 

To lean at full-length in indefinite rest 
In the lap of the greenery here? 

Can’t you kick over “the Bench,” 

And “husk” yourself out of your gown 
To dangle your legs where the fishing is good— 
Can’t you arrange to come down? 

Bah! for your office of State! 

And bah! for its technical lore! 

What does our President, high in his chair, 

But wish himself low as before! 

Pick between peasant and king,— 

Poke your bald head through a crown 
Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring!— 
Can’t you arrange to come down? 

“Judge it” out here y if you will,— 

The birds are in session by dawn; 

You can draw, not complaints, but a sketch of the 
hill 

And a breath that your betters have drawn; 

You can open your heart, like a case, 

To a jury of kine, white and brown, 

And their verdict of “Moo” will just satisfy you!— 
Can’t you arrange to come down? 

179 


TO THE JUDGE 


Can’t you arrange it, old Pard ?— 

Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent!— 

Here we have “Breitmann,” and Ward, 

Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content! 

Can’t you forget you’re a Judge 
And put by your dolorous frown 
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend— 
Can’t you arrange to come down? 





OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS 


TT0! I’m going back to where 

We were youngsters.—Meet me there, 
Dear old barefoot chum, and we 
Will be as we used to be,— 

Lawless rangers up and down 
The old creek beyond the town— 

Little sunburnt gods at play, 

Just as in that far-away:— 

Water nymphs, all unafraid, 

Shall smile at us from the brink 
Of the old millrace and wade 
Tow’rd us as we kneeling drink 
At the spring our boyhood knew, 

Pure and clear as morning-dew: 

181 


OUR BOYHOOD HAUNTS 


And, as we are rising there, 
Doubly dow’rd to hear and see, 
We shall thus be made aware 
Of an eerie piping, heard 
High above the happy bird 
In the hazel: And then we, 

Just across the creek, shall see 
(Hah! the goaty rascal!) Pan 
Hoof it o’er the sloping green, 
Mad with his own melody, 

Aye, and (bless the beasty man!) 
Stamping from the grassy soil 
Bruised scents of fleur-de-lis, 
Boneset, mint and pennyroyal. 



MY DANCIN’-DAYS IS OVER 


W HAT is it in old fiddle-chunes ’at makes me 
ketch my breath 

And ripples up my backbone tel I’m tickled most to 
death ?— 

Kindo’ like that sweet-sick feelin’, in the long 
sweep of a swing, 

The first you ever swung in, with yer first sweet¬ 
heart, i jing!— 

Yer first picnic—yer first ice-cream—yer first o’ 
ever’thing 

’At happened ’fore yer dancin’-days wuz over! 

I never understood it—and I s’pose I never can,— 
But right in town here, yisterd’y, I heerd a pore 
blind-man 

A-fiddlin’ old “Gray Eagle”— And- sir! I jes’ 
stopped my load 

O’ hay and listened at him—yes, and watched the 
way he “bow’d,”— 

And back I went, plum forty year’, with boys and 
girls I knowed 

And loved, long ’fore my dancin’-days wuz 
over!— 


183 


MY DANCING-DAYS IS OVER 


At high noon in yer city,—with yer blame Magnetic- 
Cars 

A-hummin’ and a-screetchin’ past—and bands and 
G. A. R.’s 

A-marchin’—and fire-ingines .—All the noise, the 
whole street through, 

Wuz lost on me!—I only heerd a whipperwill er 
two, 

It ’peared-like, kindo’ callin’ ’crost the darkness 
and the dew, 

Them nights afore my dancin’-days wuz over. 

T’uz Chused’y-night at Wetherell’s, er We’n’sd’y- 
night at Strawn’s, 

Er Fourth-o’-July-night at uther Tomps’s house er 
John’s!— 

With old Lew Church from Sugar Crick, with that 
old fiddle he 

Had sawed clean through the Army, from Atlanty 
to the sea— 

And yit he’d fetched her home ag’n, so’s he could 
play fer me 

Onc’t more afore my dancin’-days wuz over! 


184 

















MY DANCIN’-DAYS IS OVER 


The woods ’at’s all be’n cut away wuz growin’ same 
as then; 

The youngsters all wuz boys ag’in ’at’s now all oldish 
men; 

And all the girls ’at then wuz girls—I saw ’em, 
one and all, 

As plain as then—the middle-sized, the short-and- 
fat, and tall— 

And, ’peared-like, I danced “Tucker” fer ’em up 
and down the wall 

Jes like afore my dancin’ days wuz over! 


Yer po-leece they can holler “Say! you, Uncle! drive 
ahead!— 

You can’t use all the right-o’-way!”—fer that wuz 
what they said!— 

But, jes the same,—in spite of all ’at you call 
“interprise 

And prog-gress of i/cm-folks To-day,” we’re all of 
fambly-ties — 

We’re all got feelin’s fittin’ fer the tears ’at’s in 
our eyes 

Er the smiles afore our dancin’-days is over. 

187 


HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS 


O YOUR hands—they are strangely fair! 

Fair—for the jewels that sparkle there,— 
Fair—for the witchery of the spell 
That ivory keys alone can tell; 

But when their delicate touches rest 
Here in my own do I love them best, 

As I clasp with eager acquisitive spans 
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands! 

Marvelous—wonderful—beautiful hands! 

They can coax roses to bloom in the strands 
Of your brown tresses; and ribbons will twine, 
Under mysterious touches of thine. 

Into such knots as entangle the soul, 

And fetter the heart under such a control 
As only the strength of my love understands— 
My passionate love for your beautiful hands. 

As I remember the first fair touch 

Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, 

I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, 

Kissing the glove that I found unfilled— 

When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow, 

As you said to me, laughingly, “Keep it now!” 
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand 
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand. 

188 


HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS 


When first I loved, in the long ago, 

And held your hand as I told you so— 
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss, 

And said “I could die for a hand like this!” 
Little I dreamed love’s fulness yet 
Had to ripen when eyes were wet, 

And prayers were vain in their wild demands 
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. 

Beautiful Hands! 0 Beautiful Hands! 

Could you reach out of the alien lands 
Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night 
Only a touch—were it ever so light— 

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain 
Would lull itself into rest again; 

For there is no solace the world commands 
Like the caress of your beautiful hands. 


























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